


Yego Krasivyy Gvardeyets (His Handsome Guardsman)

by sweetNsimple



Series: Tvoye Foto (Your Photo) [2]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Brief and Effective Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Delta Platoon, Established Relationship, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Pre-Raccoon City, Pre-Resident Evil, Protective Nikolai Zinoviev, Public Humiliation, Punishment, Sergei Vladimir is a Good Friend, Sparring, Tongue Amputation, Violent Nikolai Zinoviev, mentions of lingerie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28942611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetNsimple/pseuds/sweetNsimple
Summary: “Smith,” he snarled, “was seen going through my personal items. Was that a smart thing for Smith to do?”There was a spattering of ‘No’, some uncertain head shakes.“Well?” he roared. “Was it?”“NO, SIR!”~:~Someone noticed that Nikolai favored the left breast pocket of his vest. Upon realizing that the Sergeant kept racy photos of none other than Carlos Oliveira there, this someone decided to share with the entire platoon. That plan... did not go well. At all.
Relationships: Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Carlos Oliveira
Series: Tvoye Foto (Your Photo) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2122689
Comments: 9
Kudos: 17





	Yego Krasivyy Gvardeyets (His Handsome Guardsman)

The Colonel and the Sergeant were colliding like Titans, the heavy _smack_ of dense muscle ramming against bony knuckles and elbows and knees practically loud enough to hear over the hooting and hollering that surrounded them, echoing off the walls of the spacious room. They were _animals_ , military grade tanks, and the Captain was off to the side, face in his hand as if to stave off either an oncoming headache or the feeling of incredible disappointment.

Delta Platoon surrounded the sparring duo that were tackling and throwing each other across the rubber mat set in one of the gymnasiums. These sparring matches usually took place outside, but Mikhail had noted that there was an incoming typhoon and had decided, against the advice of both the Colonel and the Sergeant, to protect his subordinates from the bad weather with some indoor activities.

Colonel Vladimir and Sergeant Zinoviev had joined the platoon for reasons that were beyond him. They weren’t required to participate and, last he knew, Captain Viktor wasn’t under evaluation for anything. The only thing he could think of was that Vladimir and Zinoviev were there _for fun_.

And, wooh boy, weren’t they having fun.

There were two things he hadn’t known before the Colonel and the Sergeant had stripped down to their pants – even removing their boots and socks before getting on the mat – and it was this: First, the mess that was the right side of Vladimir’s face extended down the right side of his _entire_ body. He was a mess of gnarled, raised, glossy scars. There was an indent right beneath his right pectoral with the skin folded into a triangular shape, as if something beneath the skin had been blasted inward or removed years ago. Probably both. It reminded him of clenching his fist around a plastic water bottle and watching it crush in on itself.

Second, and this was taking a lot of his head space, was that Sergeant Nikolai Zinoviev had pierced nipples. The pale pink buds were speared through with titanium straight barbells. The Colonel had, more than once by this point, grabbed hold of one and pulled as if he meant to tear Zinoviev’s entire tit off. Zinoviev, in reply, had rammed his fist into that triangle of dented flesh. There was blood on the Colonel’s teeth and chin and Zinoviev had lost a barbell piercing in the two minutes the men had been at it, blood trickling down his chest from the ripped nipple.

The two were grinning like lunatics, like they were having the time of their lives. Already, bruises were forming on their skin, red against winter white. They would turn dark blues and purples by the end of the day for sure. Neither man was holding back, going at each other like the only way to win was by murder.

It was as Granny Smith watched, completely fixated on that one remaining titanium barbell and how it glinted in the yellow lights of the fluorescent strips high above, that two of his buds slid next to him.

“Hey, Granny Smith,” said Yosef. “Bet you can’t swindle whatever the Sarge’s got in his vest.”

“Bet you a hundred USD,” promised Byrus. “You won’t do it. I _bet_.”

“You _bet_?” he scoffed. “Fuckin’ _watch_ me, fellas.”

~:~

Granny Smith wasn’t his real name. It was one of those weird monomers guys picked up in a prison cafeteria and then chose to keep because it was better than what their mama had named them the day they popped out of the belly. ‘Granny’ was preferable to ‘Bucephelus’, the name his mama had slapped down on his birth certificate with a proud grin as she had proclaimed that her baby was going to grow up to be a good man.

Fast forward thirty years and Granny Smith was sentenced to three life sentences for exactly thirteen charges of cyber extortion. He’d had two American senators in his back pocket as well as five representatives and the governor of his state. He had a gift for hacking and people with power had a gift for making bad life choices that they would do anything to hide.

The funniest part about getting three life sentences for cyber extortion was that he hadn’t even originally been _arrested_ for cyber extortion – they’d caught him because he’d downloaded some porn from the Dark Web. Two months after that bad decision, the FBI kicked his door down and confiscated all of his electronics. While they’d been invading his privacy, they had found out about his other activities, and well…

After three years, they failed to pin him for online pedophilia. So they got him with cyber extortion instead and the judge hit that gavel at 45 years without parole. Fucked up. Unfair. It wasn’t like he’d _killed_ anyone.

Granny Smith had served exactly one year and then Umbrella sauntered by, said that they liked his technological savvy. If he signed his life away and went to their U.B.C.S. bootcamp for a few weeks, they’d give him a room and board, a paycheck, and protection to do what he did best for them. They kept 60% of his salary to pay off the money they had spent on getting him out of prison, but he wasn’t too hung up on it. The cafeteria food was _way_ better on Rockfort Island. It made up for the pay cut.

Life in the U.B.C.S. barracks wasn’t so bad. If anything, the worst part was that arrogant lil shit Carlos. He acted buddy-buddy with everyone in the platoon _except_ Granny and his buds. As if he thought he was better than them. Granny’d like to put him in his place. He knew Byrus had something like a crush on the guy, just like he had had ‘crushes’ on the sixteen men he’d raped and killed before getting caught. He’d fantasize sometimes about knocking Carlos’s teeth out and locking him in a room with his good bud Byrus. See how holier than thou he was after that.

The thing about Carlos, though, was that he was definitely someone’s kept boy. He hadn’t figured out who, but everyone knew Oliveira belonged to someone higher up. He didn’t sleep in the dorms with them most nights and, whenever he met up with them in the morning, he had that loose gait and easy smile of someone who’d just gotten laid.

Granny was sure it was the Colonel. The Colonel looked like he wrecked men on the regular. His second guess was the Captain. After all, Carlos was pretty buddy-buddy with their platoon leader.

Byrus and Yosef both disagreed. _They_ thought Carlos was the _Sergeant’s_ pet whore. They had jack shit to back up their claim – “It’s just a hunch,” Byrus would say – but they were always on the lookout for a sign. They’d hold their breath and watch like it was a romcom every time Oliveira and Zinoviev were in the same room together, as if they expected the two to run into each other’s arms and profess their undying love.

Since they were watching so closely, they’d noticed something strange about the Sergeant: He kept something the left breast flap pocket of his vest. Something _important_ to him. Byrus said that Zinoviev would sometimes dip his fingers into his pocket, feeling something hidden there. Yosef had witnessed Zinoviev pat the same pocket at least three times at three different occasions. _Something_ , they believed, was in that pocket. Something that didn’t bulge and that weighed little to nothing, as the pocket appeared flat.

Something, Byrus and Yosef had convinced themselves, that would prove that Carlos was Zinoviev’s slut. “It’s gotta have sentimental value!” Yosef had once argued. “Unless Zinoviev keeps a Benjamin in his pocket that he’s in love with, it’s gotta be somethin’ that would remind him of a person that means somethin’ to him.”

“My bet is on the Benjamin,” Granny had said. “Or whatever they use as money over there in Russia.”

Now the day had come to know for sure.

The gymnasium was a cavernous space with wooden benches set up along the outer perimeter against the walls. There was a wide strip just beyond the benches that was used as an indoor running track. Inside of that circle were gymnasium bars and sparring mats. On one of those benches was Zinoviev’s vest right next to Vladimir’s heavy fleece overcoat.

Granny only had moments to weave his way through the platoon and begin jogging on the track. Just as he reached the clothing, as if he was being given a sign from a divine being from above, there was an echoing, screaming cheer from the platoon. Granny couldn’t even see Zinoviev or Vladimir – an actual _giant_ – from where he was on the track, which meant they surely couldn’t see him. Whatever had happened had everyone else’s unwavering attention.

Granny had never been a particularly skilled pickpocket, but it wasn’t like his target was difficult. He unsnapped the Velcro piece that held the pocket flap in place, dipped two fingers into the Sergeant’s vest, and pulled out two… photos.

They were photos.

He continued jogging as if he hadn’t stopped at all, watching the floor out of his peripheral and ogling the photos with his entire brain.

Oh, yeah. Carlos was Zinoviev’s whore.

The top photo was of Carlos stretched out across a double bed with a fancy choker around his neck, his lips a dark red like he was wearing lipstick and his eyelids shimmering gold. He was wearing lady’s lingerie and nipple clamps connected with a chain. Hot damn, he really pulled off those black stiletto heel pumps. He looked like a high-end prostitute, the kind you’d have to be a millionaire to afford. The amount of hair on his chest and face wasn’t even a deterrent, it just made him look darker, more sultry. More tempting, like forbidden fruit.

The second photo was of Carlos in the same lingerie, but it was definitely an ‘After’ to the first photo’s ‘Before’. Carlos’s lingerie was all mussed up, his choker turned around, a hole worn through one knee of his stockings. He was holding his legs up to show off his fucked-open ass, slick and shiny with lube and cum. His expression was out of it, his nipples tortured and dark beneath the nipple clamps.

“God Almighty,” he whispered to himself, breathing raggedly. He glanced up quickly and saw that the sparring match had broken up. Zinoviev and Vladimir were jeering at each other as they broke free of the ring of onlookers, going toward their clothes.

Granny noticed Carlos at the back of the ring, watching Zinoviev closely with a tent in his pants. Zinoviev turned his head in Carlos’s direction, saw that he was being watched, and flexed his upper arms and chest. From where Granny was on the outskirts of the gym, he was still able to see Carlos laugh and not-so-subtly readjust his junk. No one was paying attention to him, though. Apparently, two other members had already offered to go on the sparring mat next and the hooting and hollering was starting all over again.

Zinoviev picked up his vest and it was absolutely too late for Granny to put the photos away. He cut back from the track to the crowd, trying to disappear in it before the Sergeant had a chance to take note of who was most likely the culprit. There were five other guys on the track that continued their laps guilelessly, unaware that they were about to be marked for death.

Granny squeezed in at the back of the crowd, just out of sight while also able to peep through the excited bodies of the Delta platoon and watch the Sergeant.

He was still holding the vest, his hand balled into a fist over that empty upper left pocket. He hadn’t even put it on yet and he already knew. The Colonel, standing next to him, cocked his head in curiosity at the Sergeant’s expression of icy rage. They exchanged words – words Granny couldn’t hear – and the two Russians looked in opposite directions.

Oh, shit.

The Colonel was helping Zinoviev in scoping out the culprit. They were _working_ together.

Zinoviev grabbed the first man to jog past him, threw him to the ground, and crouched over him. The animalistic rage on his face was terrifying and the guy beneath him practically started crying as he shook his head to whatever the Sergeant was growling at him.

The Colonel stepped into the path of another jogger, a tight, dangerous smile on his face. This jogger pointed into the crowd.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, _shit_!

Granny hadn’t been thinking of the other joggers when he’d nabbed the photos. He might not be able to hear what was being said, but it didn’t take a genius to know that the guy had seen him rifling through Zinoviev’s stuff.

The Sergeant’s head shot up, a bloodhound on the scent, and those blizzard-pale eyes scrutinized the crowd.

Granny buried himself deeper into the mass of bodies, disappearing from sight.

“Hey, did you do it?” Byrus asked.

Granny was going to die. There was no denying it. If Carlos was Zinoviev’s whore, then that meant Granny had just trespassed on the Sergeant’s property. Him and the Colonel were well-known for their lack of mercy and forgiveness.

If Granny was going to die, he decided, he was going out with a bang.

“I did it!” he yelled over the crowd. He clutched the photos to his chest and pushed his way toward the epicenter of the crowd. There was a rise of cheers and boos and he knew the second match had just ended. He was jostled from the right, Byrus and Yosef supporting him on the left, and there was another rise of noise. It seemed that, as soon as the bodies from the last match had picked themselves up and moved out, a new pair had stepped in.

“Watch this!” Granny yelled to his buddies. He shoved through the innermost circle of spectators and there, in the center, already stripped down to his pants, was Carlos Oliveira himself, about to face off with his pal Tyrell Patrick. They had their fists up, feet spaced apart, heads down, and they were ready to lunge.

They paused as he shoved himself onto the rubber mat.

“What the hell, Granny Smith?” Carlos called. “Wait your turn.”

“I don’t need to listen to a sugar baby whore!” Granny yelled. There was an overwhelming scream of voices from the crowd.

Captain Viktor stepped forward, a hand in the air. He snapped it into a fist and the gymnasium was suddenly deathly quiet. “What,” he hissed, “is the meaning of this, Smith?”

“I’d just like to say, for everyone to hear, that that _slut_ over there looks _real_ good in green lace and heels.”

Carlos went from looking irritated to about to be physically ill in less than a second. His eyes darted to the black backs of the photos pressed against Granny’s chest and then to his smug face. Carlos swallowed thickly, arms falling like leaden weights to his side. There was the knowledge in his terrified eyes that he was about to be exposed, even as he took a heavy step forward to stop it from happening.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare, _Smith_ ,” he snarled.

“Fuckin’ _bet_ me and lose!”

Byrus was pawing at him, saying, “Just show us, Granny Smith! Just _show_ us!”

And Yosef said, “Oh, _shit_!”

And that was when a fist collided with the side of Granny’s skull.

He went down hard, head ringing, feeling like he was about to blow chunks across the rubber mat. He saw a long, pale foot in front of his face, except it looked how things did when they were vibrating. A hand tangled in his hair, pulling until he was forced to his knees and his dirty blonde locks were being ripped free of his scalp.

“Sergei,” came the Sergeant’s voice from somewhere far away, an echo. “ _Voz'mi te._ ”

“ _Konechno_ ,” replied the Colonel. The photos, Granny realized blearily, had landed face-down by his head. The Colonel picked them up, gave them a cursory glance that revealed little, and then tucked them into the Sergeant’s vest pocket draped over his arm. The Colonel then took a stood back, one hand planted at the small of his spine and the other at a perfect right angle across his front as if he was a butler. He appeared amused.

“Stop this at once!” the Captain roared. “What is going on? What is with this senseless violence? What was Smith speaking of?”

“Comrade Viktor,” the Colonel replied smoothly. “Do not concern yourself with these matters. Your subordinate must be taught to respect his commanding officers and their privacy.”

“He is _my_ subordinate, I shall take care of any – ”

“You do not have a choice,” the Colonel interrupted. “I was not offering you a choice. You are not the highest ranking officer in this room right now. “ _Vy ponimayete,_ Mikhail?”

Mikhail fell into a furious, tight-lipped silence.

Granny whimpered. It felt like his skull had cracked open and there was a cool breeze flowing through. Everything was spinning even though he was still and his nausea was building in waves. The Sergeant lifted him to his feet, the burn and tear of his scalp _sharp_ , and planted his knee in Granny’s gut. The pain and pressure were too much and Granny vomited on the rubber mat.

Oh, but the Sergeant wasn’t done with him yet.

“Disgusting, worthless _shitass_!” Zinoviev snarled. He pushed his fingers into Granny’s sobbing mouth and grabbed a hold of his tongue. Delta Platoon was stepping away as one entity, realizing that this was not another sparring match. Realizing that they might be about to watch one of their members die.

“This is going too far –” Mikhail tried to argue.

“Close your eyes and plug your ears if you must,” the Colonel told him. “It has not gone far enough.”

The Sergeant _wrenched_ and his grip was so powerful, even on such a slippery appendage, that Granny felt his tongue _rip_. He _screamed_ , gargling on blood and spit and another round of vomit.

The Sergeant just barely pulled his hand away before stomach acid and digested breakfast made its second appearance on the rubber mat. Granny’s tongue hung partially out of his mouth.

The Sergeant grabbed it again, obviously determined to finish what he had started.

“’EY AE E!” Granny screamed in a nasally, broken voice. _They made me!_ He pointed at Byrus and Yosef, who both had the faces of men staring death in the face and knowing they were next. “’EY AE E OO II!” _They made me do it!_

He made no sense, he knew he didn’t. But the pointing finger seemed to work just as well.

Byrus wailed, “We didn’t do anything!”

Yosef screeched, “GRANNY, YOU FUCKIN’ PUSSY!”

Those fingers pinched down on Granny’s tongue anyway, uncaring of the accusations or perhaps tucking them away to investigate later. The Sergeant ducked his head down low, mouth against Granny’s ear. “You will _never_ call him a whore again.” He jerked his arm back. The first pull was excruciating, the second made Granny’s vision go black, and he heard someone _else_ throw up when, on the third powerful tug, his tongue was torn free of his mouth with a wet _slurping_ noise.

Granny had one last second of consciousness, of being aware of still being awake, and it was only long enough to feel – not even see, he couldn’t see for shit anymore, not through the blurred shadows and tears – the Sergeant take his jaw in a wet hand and _wrench_ to the side.

Something gave a delicate little _snap_ and what had already felt like an unbearable level of pain exploded.

~::~

Smith collapsed to the floor, his jaw twisted at an unnatural angle and his tongue a bloody mess of flesh next to him. He had pissed himself upon passing out and his cargo pants were soaked, sticking to his legs. The gymnasium was flooded with the smells of vomit, ammonia, and rich iron.

Nikolai shook his hand out, spit, bits of vomit, and blood spraying from his fingers.

The gymnasium was overly quiet. The merrymaking and cheering from earlier had devolved into terror-induced silence. Every man and woman in Delta Platoon feared that they would be next if they made a single peep. The only noise that could be heard was Mikhail’s deep, whistling breaths. He appeared to be about to have an aneurism, eyes wide and unblinking and face twisted with red rage as he looked down at his broken subordinate. His hands were clenched into fists at his side. He didn’t look at Sergei and Nikolai, but Nikolai still suspected that Mikhail despised them.

Nikolai did not care. It had to be done. Perhaps Mikhail would understand in time.

“ _Chuvstvovat' sebya luchshe?_ ” Sergei asked, overall unconcerned with what had just happened. _Feel better?_

“ _Net,_ ” Nikolai snarled. He crouched down and used Smith’s shirt to wipe off his hand. “You two.” He looked at the men who Smith had pointed at. One of them had vomited down his chest. The other appeared to be having an out-of-body experience. “Get him out of here.” He gestured to Smith’s body. “And clean this mat. It’s filthy.”

They nodded mutely, and yet hesitated to move otherwise. They didn’t want to approach Nikolai, showing some intelligence on their part.

He still felt murderous rage burning in his belly. To think that a lowlife like _Smith_ had gotten a hold of his photos. That he had seen his _krasivaya printsessa_ , his _beautiful princess_ , and had been about to show the entire Delta Platoon as if Carlos’s lace-dressed submission was a worthless skin mag, made Nikolai bare his teeth at the unconscious body.

“ _Now_!” he roared. The two men jerked into motion, grabbing Smith under his armpits and quickly dragging him away. A path opened behind them as they moved, members of the platoon refusing to touch them, to be associated with them. 

As much as Nikolai wanted to murder Smith and his accomplices for this trespass into his and Carlos’s private life, he was just as furious at himself for giving them the opportunity to trespass. Nikolai felt hotly ashamed. Carlos was his, the gift of his submission a treasure that Nikolai had been meant to hoard secretly to himself. Nikolai was not a particularly stable man, not a _good_ man by any stretch of the word, and he remained willfully out of touch of his emotions. Sentiment was what got you killed. _Caring_ was a weakness. Caring did not put money in pockets, it would not pay to keep him out of poverty, it would not put food in his belly. He had never claimed to care about Carlos, not out loud…

That did not mean it was not felt. That it was not known. Carlos’s happiness was something of value to Nikolai, a value he could not understand as it had no monetary price, and yet it was there and unignorable.

He directed his fierce glare at the remaining Delta members. Someone sobbed.

“ _Smith_ ,” he snarled, “was seen going through my personal items. Was that a smart thing for Smith to do?”

There was a spattering of ‘No’, some uncertain head shakes.

“ _Well_?” he roared. “Was it?”

“NO, SIR!”

“Did Smith have the right to go through the possessions of a commanding officer?”

“NO, SIR!”

“What will I do if I see anyone else touch what is mine?”

There was a fearful silence.

“Make them regret it,” came a single, low voice. Carlos was still standing on the mat, stripped of boots, socks, and tops. His pants were sagging, framing the V of his hips, his arms loose at his sides. The set of his shoulders was relaxed. His furred chest inflated and deflated calmly. Something flashed through those dark brown eyes when Nikolai’s head whipped in his direction. He added, with a slight curl of his lips that could have been misidentified as disgust but was most certainly something _else_ , something delicious, “ _Sir_.”

Carlos had been a Guerilla. He had fought for everything he had owned, he had fought for his beliefs, he had fought for his family and village. He’d been raised fighting and his body was a not just a vessel of transport, was not just a vessel of pleasure, it was also a vessel of _destruction_.

He was the only one in the gymnasium – beside Sergei who had remained quietly upbeat throughout the ordeal and Mikhail who appeared to be about to explode in rage – who was not afraid by what he had just seen.

Nikolai had been his lover long enough to know that Carlos was aroused. He had just seen Nikolai soundly and effortlessly break the man who had insulted Carlos and invaded his privacy.

What Nikolai had seen as a failure, he now saw as a victory. He saw it as a victory because Carlos did.

Even if everyone in Delta had just heard Smith call Carlos a whore, a slut, had been about to show them something that would have very likely supported his claims, there was not a single soul in the room who would ever dare repeat those words. Not to Carlos, not about Carlos, not even in the safety of their own minds. Forever more, Delta would live in terror of Nikolai, of his quick and merciless punishments.

Nikolai looked around the ring. He lifted his hands up, arms stretched from his body, as if welcoming a challenge. “Well?” he demanded.

“MAKE THEM REGRET IT, SIR!”

Mikhail exhaled roughly. He, unlike Carlos, had very little understanding of the situation. He had heard some name-calling, seen the back of some photographs, and had the intelligence to draw his own conclusions, but not the presence to realize that the violence he had just witnessed was _retribution_. Pure and simple as that. What he had seen was Sergei taking control of his platoon as Colonel and allowing Nikolai, a Sergeant and man of rank below Mikhail’s, to destroy one of his subordinates.

He would get over it.

Nikolai peeked again at Carlos, who was standing tall and straight, shoulders back.

Fuck it. If Delta hadn’t figured it out before, they would soon enough.

He stalked up to his lover, wrapped his – clean – hand around the back of his neck, and dragged him into a hard, furious kiss. Carlos was tense at first, years of avoiding all public displays of affection at war with his desire to give in. He quickly chose the latter and his arms came around Nikolai’s waist, dragging him closer.

Nikolai pulled away for a moment, pressing another kiss to Carlos’s forehead, fingers edging upward into dark curls. “Just to be clear!” he roared. “ _This_ is also mine!”

“YES, SIR!” 

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> Voz'mi te. – Take those.  
> Konechno – Of course.  
> Vy ponimayete? – You understand?  
> Chuvstvovat' sebya luchshe? – Feel better? 
> 
> Nikolai has nipple piercings because AnotherAnon0 gave him nipple piercings in their story 'The Soldier and the Prince' and I haven't stopped thinking about it since.
> 
> What is hilarious is that I was halfway through writing this when I saw the notification that AnotherAnon0 had just posted a new story, 'Chris Dies at the End'. I am craving violence on a Neanderthal level right now, and their story was deliciously violent and insane, I suggest it if the tags on their story fit your needs and wants. 
> 
> Carlos may or may not be in-character in this story. I don't imagine he's the kind of guy who actually gets off on watching a comrade get the living soul beat out of their body, but I decided, what the hell? Maybe he would be. Maybe he's the kind of guy who's used to fighting for everything from a penny to respect, and maybe he likes someone else taking up the fight for him. 
> 
> Also, I had this story idea halfway through its predecessor, 'My Pretty Princess', but I didn't have the energy to write it. I decided, 'What the hell' and went at it today. It's not very in-depth, but I just wanted some fast and furious retribution from Nikolai, so it serves my needs. 
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts and feelings!


End file.
